


A Spot of Bother

by KitCat_Italica



Series: Yours, Always [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And So Is Crowley tbh, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Clever, Because Big Soft Is Their Default State With Each Other, But Then They Get Big Soft, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Fluff, Forbidden Love, Forgiveness, He's Both At The Same Time, In Which Gabriel and Sandalphon Are Jerks, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Pining While Married, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Psychic Bond, Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Secret Marriage, They Get Big Mad, Wedding Rings, aziraphale is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat_Italica/pseuds/KitCat_Italica
Summary: Looking back, if there was what could be deemed a ‘spot of bother’ in their marriage, Aziraphale might’ve once identified the start of it all around 1862.  He still squirmed slightly when recalling that crisp September day at St. James’s Park.  Neither of them had handled the fallout from that day particularly well.But if he were being fully honest with himself, Aziraphale knew itreallybegan in 1800.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Yours, Always [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700482
Comments: 11
Kudos: 157





	A Spot of Bother

Every marriage had its rough patches. For some couples, having children caused them to grow apart. For others, even the first year could give way to some inevitable disagreements.

Aziraphale counted himself supremely lucky in this regard—his marriage to Crowley had held strong and steady for its first fifty-eight centuries. Even luckier, considering that during the first ten of those centuries, he and Crowley hardly saw each other. Yet after all that time, they still fell into their same comfortable groove as if they’d only been parted for mere hours.

Looking back, if there was what could be deemed a ‘spot of bother’ in their marriage, Aziraphale might’ve once identified the start of it all around 1862. He still squirmed slightly when recalling that crisp September day at St. James’s Park. Neither of them had handled the fallout from that day particularly well.

But if he were being fully honest with himself, Aziraphale knew it _really_ began in 1800.

xxx

The day was an auspicious one. He’d just completed his first morning as a bookshop owner. The customers were delightful, only mildly grating on his nerves when they asked to actually _buy_ one of his precious tomes. 

He had closed for a lunch break. And who should wander in but his dear beloved Crowley, armed with a box of chocolates and a grin worthy of any tempter.

Three hours later, Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to open the shop for the afternoon. The empty chocolate box lay discarded on a table. A kerosene lamp lit up the little backroom tucked away in the shop’s belly.

Aziraphale, having eaten said chocolates, was now curled up in said backroom on a lovely plush sofa with Crowley, trading luxuriant chocolate-flavored kisses between them.

Crowley chuckled into his mouth. “You gonna reopen anytime soon?”

“We’re closed for the day,” Aziraphale murmured back. “There’s a most valuable piece of merchandise I simply _have_ to unwrap.” Crowley sighed happily, wiggling closer. It was moments like this that had Aziraphale thinking traitorous thoughts. Thoughts like, _This is better than anything Heaven could offer._

__

__

But perhaps he’d thought such thoughts too loudly, as a loud knock rapped at the door.

Aziraphale froze. Crowley kept trying to chase his lips, but Aziraphale pulled away.

He knew that knock. Just as he knew the too-clean scent that accompanied it. Sterile like alcohol, but with none of the inebriation. It sharpened the senses too much instead.

An audible sniff from Crowley’s nose, and the tensing of his husband’s muscles, indicated Crowley also knew who had just arrived at the shop.

The knock barreled through the quiet again. _“Hey, Aziraphale!”_ came that grating, cheery voice. _“Surprise, surprise!”_

__

__

Surprise, indeed.

Aziraphale rose from the couch, instinctively placing himself between Crowley and the distant front door. Crowley tried to tug him back. “Angel—”

“Go out the back way,” Aziraphale intoned.

Through the ring on his pinky—his latest wedding ring, miracled to connect to his darling love—Aziraphale could sense Crowley’s quiet frustration. The age-old argument between them, about _hiding_ and _denying_ and _flipping off Head Offices,_ was still a point of contention. It probably always would be.

But Aziraphale had no time to argue about it now. He shook his arm out of Crowley’s hold, and strode to the shop’s main floor.

He arrived not a moment too soon: his unannounced visitors must’ve grown impatient, as the miraculously-warded front door was thrown open without so much as a by-your-leave. After all, an Archangel far outranked a Principality in the amount of Heavenly power they were authorized to draw upon. Any miracle of Aziraphale’s could easily be undone by one of them.

In this case, there were two of them. Gabriel had brought along his old friend, Sandalphon. Aziraphale hadn’t seen either of them in a good century and a half; their nineteenth-century dandy suits had him staring, trying to parse this new visual in his head.

“Gabriel,” he said, hoping his false cheer covered up his nervousness. (He wasn’t sure if it ever had.) “And Sandalphon. To what do I owe the, ah…pleasure?”

“We were just checking in, seeing how you’re doing!” Gabriel exclaimed. “I see you’ve made yourself a, um…” He glanced around at the bookshop, looking like he was trying to describe the surface of a newly-discovered planet. His face brightened as he arrived at his desired term: “…A building!”

“Why?” Sandalphon asked dryly. It was the most suspicious tone he seemed capable of—though his usual sliminess and lack of curiosity thankfully muted the effect.

Aziraphale fiddled with his own fingers. “Well, you see, I thought it best to, um, to blend in with the humans. Humans have shops, and so…” He gestured to the surrounding bookshelves. “...I made one myself. A base of operations, if you will. Today’s our grand opening!”

Gabriel laughed. “Well, I’m glad we caught you when we did. Have I got some good news for you: you won’t be needing a base of operations anymore!”

Aziraphale’s stomach knotted. “I won’t?”

“No, no, you see, we’re here to give you this.” Gabriel presented him with a flat case made of blue velvet. He opened it, to reveal a golden medal on a white silk ribbon gleaming inside.

It didn’t compute. “What’s this?” Aziraphale asked.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “It’s a commendation! For all your hard work down here. Putting up with the humans and their simple-minded ways for the last five-plus millenna. Let me tell you, it hasn’t gone unnoticed!”

Aziraphale’s queasiness only grew worse. He had rather been counting on it going unnoticed.

“And, you know,” Gabriel added as an afterthought, “it’s also my way of saying ‘congratulations.’”

“For…for what?”

Gabriel made that face he always made around Aziraphale. That _Lord-Almighty-I-can’t-believe-you-don’t-know-this_ face. “For your promotion! You’re coming back home, to Heaven! Big new office job, excellent benefits, the whole package deal!”

Aziraphale couldn’t cover up the shock on his expression. Once it had slipped, he didn’t bother trying to hide it anymore.

The words _home_ and _Heaven_ sounded so unbearably wrong to be spoken in the same sentence like that. He didn’t know when the change had crept up on him, but Heaven didn’t feel like that anymore. If he were honest with himself, it hadn’t since Eden.

 _Home_ was now catalogued in his mind alongside human settlements. Among old books and sweet confections. Where things weren’t clean and perfect, but careworn and _right._

__

__

And if the word _home_ was catalogued among these things, it was also shelved right next to the word _Crowley._

__

__

“I can’t.”

Gabriel looked taken aback. “Can’t? What do you mean, _can’t?_ You’re too hard on yourself, Aziraphale. You’ve earned this!”

“I—I mean, I—” Aziraphale cast about desperately for an excuse, his hands fidgeting in the air. “I can’t leave my post. The Almighty gave me this task, to protect the humans, and—”

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale froze. 

Sandalphon, who had spoken, was pointing at Aziraphale’s raised hand. The hand on which he wore his pinky ring.

Aziraphale swallowed dryly. “Oh…”

Gabriel squinted at it curiously. He sniffed. “There’s a miracle attached to it.”

“An _evil_ miracle,” Sandalphon added, glaring that unnerving glare at Aziraphale.

That’s right. _Crowley_ had been the one to add the emotions-sensing miracle to Aziraphale’s ring this time. That’s why it would smell like him.

Aziraphale started twisting it around his finger without realizing. The Archangels’ eyes stayed locked on the motion. “Well, you see,” Aziraphale started babbling, “I, um, this ring, it—it allows me to—” _Lord, if this excuse didn’t work…_ “…To sense the enemy.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows raised. “To _sense_ them?”

Emboldened, Aziraphale continued. “When they pop up, as it were, I can, ah, go on the alert.”

Sandalphon peered closer at the ring. “Does it give you an exact location?”

“Not precisely. Just a general area. For instance, if, say, a Duke of Hell were to appear in London—”

“But there’s already a field agent from Hell in London,” said Gabriel. “The demon Crowley.”

Aziraphale gulped. “Oh yes, right. Him as well. So if one of them were to—”

“Hang on,” said Gabriel. He pocketed the commendation medal, and without warning, _plucked the ring off Aziraphale’s finger._ Aziraphale had to wrestle a yelp of protest back down his throat. 

Gabriel turned the ring over, inspecting its surface. He tapped it a few times, making little _ping-ping-ping_ sounds with his nails. “It’s connected to a demon.” He smirked. “Aziraphale, is there a demon you’ve been keeping tabs on?”

In a split second, Aziraphale had to make a decision. One wrong word, and who knew what danger they’d be in. 

“Yes,” he said. “And _that’s_ why I need to stay on Earth.”

Gabriel and Sandalphon looked at him expectantly. 

Aziraphale pressed on. “You see, the demon Crowley is…well, he’s quite a _wily_ adversary. Thoroughly cunning in his efforts to tempt humanity. But with this, I can sense his emotions. So, when he’s feeling…particularly _evil,_ I can anticipate his actions, and better thwart him.”

Gabriel made an impressed face. “How’d you manage that?”

“I could draw up a full report for you, of the miracle’s specifications. Quite a delicate process, though. I imagine it would take millennia for anyone else to replicate. So, until then, it might be best if I can stay on Earth. I may be the best shot Heaven has at countering him.”

Sandalphon and Gabriel slid a glance between them. Aziraphale held his unnecessary breath.

“Well…” Gabriel finally said, “…that does complicate things. I’ll definitely have to bring this up at our next board meeting. They’re gonna want to be all over this.”

Aziraphale made a mental note to give Heaven absolute poppycock for how to replicate it in his next report.

“But for right now, you wouldn’t mind me testing it, would you?”

Aziraphale tensed.

Even if he had been able to snap out of his shock enough to reply, Gabriel wasn’t waiting for an answer. He held the ring aloft between his thumb and pointer finger, peering at it with rapt attention. It looked so _wrong_ in his hand. That was the ring _Crowley_ had given Aziraphale, it didn’t belong with anyone else!

Aziraphale suddenly felt a wash of outrage prickle his back. Outrage he shared in, yes, but it wasn’t all his. Even without his ring, his bond with Crowley ran so deep that he could still sense his emotions when he was near.

And with the ring pinched between Gabriel’s fingers, the Archangel could clearly sense them, too. He grinned. “There you are, demon. Let’s see if this goes both ways.”

Visually, nothing happened. All a human might be able to sense was a crystallizing in the air, a heat in the bookshop’s general direction, a sense that something vast and powerful was gathering. Their ears might pop, or their sinuses might start to feel too much pressure. 

But in the realm of auras and spirits, it was the equivalent of artillery fire. Gabriel was aiming all the righteous fury of Heaven toward the ring, funneling the power directly into its connection.

Into Crowley.

Aziraphale’s senses _burned._ His back would’ve hurt less if his bookshop was smoldering to the ground behind him. Raw terror and agony was blazing white-hot at his back.

He heard a low whimper from the backroom.

Gabriel and Sandalphon didn’t hear it. They were too engrossed in channeling their Heavenly grace into the ring with gleeful, disgusting smiles. Aziraphale had to tamp down every urge he had to lunge at the pair and wrestle the ring from their over-sanitized fingers. 

Aziraphale heard another whimper, louder this time, and he couldn’t stand by any longer. “That’s enough!” 

They glanced at him, stunned.

“Best—best not alert him to your presence,” Aziraphale stammered. “He might call for reinforcements.”

Gabriel sighed. “True. I guess it’s not time for Armageddon just yet.” 

He tossed the ring back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale scrambled to catch it, clasping it so tightly in his palm he was sure it would leave an imprint for days. Right away, he started trickling as much soothing love and reassurance as he could into the connection. _I’m here, love, I’m here, I’m so sorry, I should never have—_

__

__

“Well, I’ll be needing that report ASAP,” said Gabriel. “This could be a real game-changer. Tracking and striking at the enemy from afar? We’ll win the war in no time!” He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Excellent job, as always.” 

Sandalphon smirked as they left the shop. He had always loved violence more than Aziraphale was comfortable with.

The moment the pair of Archangels disappeared around the street corner, Aziraphale redoubled every lock and magical ward he could think of around the bookshop’s door, and rushed to the backroom. “Crowley,” he said frantically, “I’m so dreadfully sorry—”

His face fell. Crowley was a pile of sprawled limbs on the floor, breathing hard as he squeezed his eyes shut. Physically, he looked unharmed, but the spiritual agony he’d been subjected to was roiling under the surface. Aziraphale’s eyes watered just being near it.

Aziraphale went to his knees to help Crowley into his arms. “Up you get, my darling, that’s it…” Now that they were alone again, Aziraphale didn’t hesitate to unleash the full force of his love and tenderness, hoping it would soothe Crowley’s pain. He transmitted it through every point of contact between their bodies as he crushed him close in an embrace.

Crowley weakly returned the hug, and started talking again. Both good signs. “Don’ worry, m’fine,” he rasped. “Right as rain, me. Nothing a good Bordeaux won’t fix.”

“Perhaps later,” said Aziraphale. “You need a lie-down.”

Crowley grunted. “Yeah, that too.” 

Aziraphale was able to gently guide him back to the sofa, where he proceeded to tangle their bodies so thoroughly it might take them days to untie the knot of their limbs. He held Crowley close, stroking his hair, letting his husband be soothed by the rhythmic motions and the gentle love he was pouring into his heart.

“Might go to sleep,” Crowley slurred into Aziraphale’s neck. “Fair warning.”

Aziraphale grinned. “Go right ahead. As long as you help me write those reports when you wake. Wouldn’t want to send Heaven any instructions that actually make sense.”

Crowley breathed a laugh. “Don’t worry. I bullshit reports for a living.”

xxx

It wasn’t that Aziraphale _forgot_ about the incident as the years went by. Your secret marriage nearly being outed, and your husband nearly being spiritually destroyed by your middle managers, wasn’t a day you forget anytime soon.

It was just that, well, it had happened, and now it was behind them. Crowley had spent the next few days alternating between sleep, cuddles, and warm cups of tea, and was back to his old self within the week. Heaven had bought Aziraphale’s excuse, and between his and Crowley’s work on the reports of how to replicate the ring’s miracles, Head Office would never make heads nor tails of the instructions. 

Aziraphale’s method of secrecy and lies by omission had worked. He and Crowley could go back to the way things were. Everything was _fine._

__

__

But on that autumn day in 1862, it became clear to Aziraphale that of the two of them, he was the only one who thought so.

The day seemed perfectly ordinary at first. He had planned to meet Crowley at St. James’s Park to feed the ducks, walk to their favorite pub of the last month for some excellent fish and chips, and head back to his shop to divvy up their assignments for the next year. If that meeting turned into a leisurely lovemaking session for the rest of the afternoon, well, so much the better.

But he should have known something was amiss the moment he laid eyes on his husband. Crowley was first to the duck pond, and as Aziraphale approached him, he could see the demon’s uncharacteristically stiff posture. He didn’t say much, either, as they started to talk. But that was fine. He could be aloof sometimes; it was just how he was. Aziraphale loved him no less for it. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale couldn’t fill the silence with his own ramblings, as he so loved to do.

So, Aziraphale fed the ducks, and rambled. He talked about what the elderly Mr. Dickens had gotten up to recently, the goings-on in Parliament, the latest blessing he’d fulfilled in Brighton, where he’d happened upon a most excellent patisserie— 

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said suddenly. “What if it all goes wrong?”

Aziraphale paused, startled by the change in subject. "Wrong? Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, y'know, _this,"_ said Crowley. He could not be more vague if he tried. "We've a lot in common, you and me. Got a lot of the same problems. Same deadlines, same oversight. Could just be a matter of time 'fore something happens. For it to all go pear-shaped."

Aziraphale had returned his focus to the ducks, only half-listening to his husband, as it was clear Crowley's cagey answers wouldn't let up anytime soon. "Mmm, yes. Pears. I do like pears."

"If it all goes _wrong,"_ Crowley said again. "I want insurance. I need a favor."

Aziraphale had run out of bread for the ducks. "What?"

Crowley handed him a scrap of paper. "I wrote it down. Walls have ears." 

He was saying something else, too, something about how ducks needed to hear each other. Aziraphale, however, didn't hear anything else Crowley said.

His mind had ground to a halt as he saw the two words scribbled on the piece of paper:

_Holy water._

__

__

He turned to Crowley. _"Out of the question."_

__

__

"Why not?"

Oh, for—how daft was this demon beside him? What sort of question was that, _'Why not?'_ "It would destroy you! _I'm not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!"_

__

__

"That's not what I want it for," Crowley hissed. "It's just insurance—"

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley! Even if I were to—to _procure_ this for you, don’t you think they’d notice?” He glanced meaningfully skyward to emphasize who he meant by _they._ “And if they noticed, they’d start _digging,_ and when they find the fifty-nine centuries’ worth of—of us— _fraternizing—”_

__

__

He had rarely seen Crowley level such a searing glare at anyone, least of all himself. _“Fraternizing?”_

__

__

Okay, wrong word, perhaps. But Aziraphale had come too far to back down. “Or whatever you wish to call it!”

_“You know what it’s called—”_

__

__

“That’s hardly the point, Crowley.”

“That’s _always_ the point, angel,” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale nearly winced; he had never heard the familiar endearment spoken so coldly. “All the hiding. That’s _why_ I want this. In case it happens again. If it all goes wrong and Downstairs finds out, one splash of the blessed stuff in their direction and they’ll—”

“If you think I’m going to just let you hold onto the one substance that can destroy you, for _safekeeping,_ then—” Aziraphale cut himself off. This was getting nowhere. He drew up his posture like a gentleman, and said crisply, “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.” With that, he turned to leave.

“So are we not _fraternizing_ this afternoon?”

Oh, the blood in Aziraphale’s corporation positively _boiled_ at the snide remark! He whirled around to Crowley’s leveling glare with his own version. “As if I would want to with the likes of you!”

“Like I would want to either!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Obviously.”

He threw the offending paper in the pond, and stormed off.

xxx

It took about three hours for Aziraphale to come to his senses. 

He still wasn’t going to agree with Crowley about the holy water. That was a nonstarter. But while Crowley had said some horrible things to him, he had to admit that he’d probably escalated the situation, himself. 

It took him a few days to work up the resolve to write Crowley. No luck. Five days and twelve missives later, Crowley was still avoiding him.

It was probably fine. Crowley was likely still nursing his feelings. The poor dear had a penchant for stewing at times. One of his more self-destructive tendencies.

But that was just it: Crowley could be self-destructive. That was why Aziraphale wasn’t giving him the holy water. But that was also what was making Aziraphale worry now.

Thinking back to the meeting at the park, Aziraphale tried to recall how Crowley had felt. He’d lost his usual pinky ring a few years ago (he had been hoping Crowley might give him a new one at this last meeting). But their metaphysical connection didn’t just rely on their enchanted wedding rings; when they were in close proximity, they could still sense each other’s emotions when they paid attention.

Now, Aziraphale hadn’t been paying that much attention. But you don’t spend almost six thousand years married to the same demon without developing a good barometer of their emotional cues. The stiff posture, how quiet he’d been, the buzzing undercurrent of unease in their connection…combined with his talk about wanting _insurance, if it all goes pear-shaped…_

__

__

Crowley had been _afraid._

__

__

So there Aziraphale's lovely husband had stood, afraid of his overlords and reaching out for help. Only for Aziraphale to throw it all in his face, and withdraw his support.

So, that begged the question Aziraphale was almost too afraid to contemplate: what other options might Crowley have turned to?

The thought was enough to override Aziraphale’s hesitations. He flipped the bookshop’s sign to _Closed,_ and bustled off to Crowley’s townhome of the last century.

No one answered his repeated knocking. But that wasn’t going to stop Aziraphale today—after a quick scan for other demonic presences in the home, Aziraphale miracled open the door. It was an emergency, after all. Or, at least, it might be.

Crowley’s minimalist decorating style made searching his home easier. Aziraphale rushed from room to room, only stopping once he reached the bedroom.

There was Crowley. A very much alive, un-vaporized Crowley. A limbs-askew, deeply-asleep Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed in relief. He could take Crowley sleeping, as long as it meant he was safe for the moment. Crowley wouldn’t do anything rash if he was asleep.

But then Aziraphale saw something that made his heart drop.

Crowley’s ring.

It was not in its usual place, on the chain around Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale knew that Crowley would never take it off, even while sleeping. He’d seen Crowley sleep plenty of times. He hadn’t removed it in three thousand years.

Until now. The ring and its chain were lying on his bedside table.

Over a century later, after the world had decided to not end in fire and death, Aziraphale would reflect that he might’ve read too much into the ring’s placement. But he didn’t have that hindsight at the moment.

All he had was the sensation of a stone settling coldly in his middle.

He went home.

xxx

Years passed. Decades. Not quite a century, but nearly there. Modern life was accelerating at a breakneck pace, but the interim still felt longer than it should have. 

Aziraphale told himself he should snap out of this maudlin attitude. He and Crowley had spent longer periods apart than this. Their record was nearly a millennium, between Cain and Noah, and that was still in the early days of their marriage. He and Crowley had each confided since then that they’d wondered in those years whether their whole marriage had been a dream, unable to withstand the realities of their day jobs. (Judging by their… _vigorous_ reunion aboard the Ark, it was clear their marriage had triumphed over their separation. Their enthusiasm had put even the two rabbits to shame.)

But Aziraphale knew this was different, and potentially far worse. Their separation back then had been due to the demands of their Head Offices. It was out of their control. 

_This_ had been of their own making.

Aziraphale did his best to distract himself. Work kept him plenty busy, what with a global flu pandemic and now not one, but _two_ world wars. Plenty of pain to soothe among the humans.

He didn’t find much soothing for himself.

xxx

That is, until he was being held at gunpoint by Nazis. 

He’d grossly underestimated his chances of coming out on top in this transaction. Now he was about to be discorporated, then have to go back Upstairs to explain it to Gabriel, then have to fill out _paperwork._ He’d almost rather face a legion of Hell than a stack of corporeal asset declarations and miraculous expenditure reports.

But somehow, at that moment he got his wish, as a demonic presence entered the church.

Well, _one_ demonic presence, rather than an entire legion. And by ‘entered the church,’ Aziraphale supposed ‘hopped down the aisle like a kernel of popping corn’ was a more apt description.

But he couldn’t find it in him to be amused; he was too busy feeling overwhelmed that he was seeing Crowley again, and _speaking_ to Crowley again, for the first time in nearly eighty years. Even if this was his husband’s last hurrah of kindness before he made a clean break of their marriage, Aziraphale was struck by how little things had changed between them.

Well, some things had changed. _“Anthony?”_

__

__

Crowley faltered. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” said Aziraphale. He rolled the name over in his mind, testing if each syllable measured up to the demon before him. It didn’t _not_ fit, he supposed. It wasn’t so different from the Renaissance, when Crowley had gone by _Antonio._ “I’ll get used to it.”

The horrid Nazis seemed familiar with Crowley’s new alias. They also kept threatening to kill them both. Aziraphale ignored them; he had more pressing concerns. “What does the _‘J’_ stand for?”

“Uuummnnn…” Crowley stuttered, “it’s…just a ‘J’, really.”

If that didn’t sound like the flashy, image-obsessed, _this-is-the-sort-of-thing-a-cool-human-would-have_ sort of thing Crowley would say, Aziraphale didn’t know what would.

Speaking of flashy, Crowley did come up with a tidy plan for their escape: he dropped a bomb on the church, letting Aziraphale perform the miracle to save them both. And by _tidy,_ it was tidy in the sense that it gave them each viable explanations for their actions to their Head Offices: Crowley exploded a church and killed a few humans, and Aziraphale saved himself and allowed some Nazis to perish.

It wasn’t very tidy in terms of the rubble. 

They each went through the motions in the aftermath. Aziraphale thanked Crowley, and Crowley rebuffed it. It looked like they were just out of this scrape, business as usual, when… 

…Crowley gave him the satchel of books.

And Aziraphale…had to take a _moment._

__

__

He could believe someone else might’ve saved him from being shot or exploded. Humans were often capable of more good and altruism than any angel. Another angel _might_ be swayed to help him out; even if discorporation wasn’t permanent, losing your longest-serving field agent during the worst war in human history wasn’t best for business.

That was one thing. But if only a few people would save him from bodily harm, who would save him _and_ his books?

Only someone who knew him well enough, and who _cared_ enough about him. Only then would someone save something that meant nothing to them, but meant _so much_ to him.

Crowley hadn’t just saved him. He’d saved his books.

Because after the worst fight they’d ever had, his husband still knew him, still cared for him, still _loved_ him, more than anyone else could ever understand.

xxx

They drove in silence.

Well, he and Crowley were silent; the Bentley was not. Aziraphale had never heard a machine roar so loudly outside of a military operation. Definitely more Crowley’s style than his.

Also in Crowley’s style was how fast he was driving. Aziraphale didn’t want to hold it against him; they were in the middle of a warzone, after all. Crowley probably didn’t drive this recklessly _all_ the time.

But tonight, Aziraphale’s thoughts were matching Crowley’s driving speeds. He was clutching the satchel in his lap so tightly, he was cutting off the circulation in his fingers. Just being in Crowley’s presence again, with that tangible reminder of his husband’s love clutched in his grip, was throwing Aziraphale into quite the silent tizzy.

There were so many things he wanted to say. So many apologies, explanations, questions, and accusations. The streets of London might be deserted, but Aziraphale’s thoughts were creating a traffic jam between his mind and his tongue.

But nevermind what he wanted to say; there were also a thousand things he wanted to _do._ He wanted to throw himself at Crowley’s feet and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to shake him by his lapels and demand an explanation for his decades-long absence. He wanted to invite him into his shop and never let him leave. He wanted to grasp every inch of his husband’s skin until he’d restaked his claim to his body and heart.

All of those actions seemed easier than the one he could perform right now: hold Crowley’s hand on the console. Every time he had the thought to do so, his arm locked up in fear. He didn’t dare.

Crowley swerved them to a stop in front of the bookshop. The engine idled.

They still hadn’t said a word since they got in the car.

Now that they were actually _here,_ and Crowley could conceivably drop him off and never see him again, every atom of Aziraphale’s celestial essence rebelled against that notion. He knew exactly what he wanted to do; no, what he _needed_ to do. He _had_ to invite Crowley in. 

The question was whether Crowley wanted the same thing. A tentative brush of Aziraphale’s aura against Crowley’s only revealed the demon’s emotions drawn taut like a bowstring. Much like the atmosphere in the car.

“So,” Aziraphale said. He immediately regretted breaking the silence; now it was up to _him_ to make the offer, and Crowley might reject it! If Crowley had asked first, this wouldn’t have been an issue!

Casting about for an excuse to invite Crowley into his home, Aziraphale fell back on his tried-and-true method: “Drink?”

Crowley’s expression reeled back a bit. In the dark like this, Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes clearly behind his sunglasses. The armor they afforded him from the rest of the world was now also shielding him from Aziraphale.

“Yeah, alright.”

Oh. _Oh._ Crowley had said _yes!_

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Aziraphale released his held breath. One awkward obstacle out of the way. Only a million to go.

When they climbed out of the car, Aziraphale noticed the far more pressing reason for Crowley to come inside: he was _limping._ “Oh dear,” said Aziraphale, “here, let me.” He offered an arm around Crowley’s back before he realized what he was doing.

But Crowley didn’t recoil from the offer to lean on him. He silently accepted it.

Two obstacles down, then.

Once inside, Aziraphale removed their coats and hats, deposited Crowley and the books on a sofa, and scarpered off to the kitchenette for his supplies. He returned with his best bottle of single-malt and two glasses in hand. Floating behind him was his first aid kit, a cloth, and a tub of water.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the levitating objects, but he accepted the drink nonetheless. They didn’t toast anything out loud. Aziraphale thought his usual prayer for this war to end soon, along with an emphatic plea to _Please let him take me back._

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Crowley drained his glass in one go. Aziraphale let him refill it himself. If asked, he would’ve denied he was nursing his own drink as a method of procrastination. Good thing Crowley didn’t ask; Aziraphale was never comfortable with lying.

But soon, he’d emptied his glass. With a breath to steel himself, Aziraphale set his glass to the side, and knelt before Crowley’s feet to remove his shoes.

He had untied one shoe’s laces and was working on the second when Crowley broke the silence. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley’s expression was almost-unreadable.

“You know you don’t have to,” he said.

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “I’m aware.”

Crowley’s expression shifted again. Aziraphale gave up on trying to parse every emotion he could feel thrumming under his husband’s skin, and returned his focus to Crowley’s feet.

Shoes and socks removed, Aziraphale inspected the soles of his feet for damage. It was worse than he’d anticipated. The skin was shining bright red, except for the splotches of purple which were quickly turning black.

Aziraphale winced. _All that so I wouldn’t be embarrassed._

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He had to distract himself from that line of thinking, or he’d be overwhelmed with it. Carefully, he placed Crowley’s feet in the basin of cool water, and began to wash his feet with the cloth as gently as he could.

The irony of _washing feet_ was not lost on him. He wondered what the Almighty or Her Son might think of all this. On second thought, perhaps he didn’t want to find out.

The whole time, not a single whimper passed Crowley’s lips. He stayed remarkably still throughout the treatment. While Aziraphale sometimes wondered if there were more disturbing implications to this pain response, it at least made his job easier.

But now came the tricky bit: the burn ointment. 

He smeared some onto his fingers, and lifted Crowley’s left foot out of the tub. The inflamed skin made Aziraphale’s own soles throb in sympathy.

“This will sting,” he murmured.

Crowley gripped the edge of the sofa.

At the first touch of the ointment on his burns, Crowley’s foot jerked, but he didn’t move away. The only other indications he gave that he felt any pain was a sharp intake of breath, and the way his knuckles turned white on the sofa cushions.

Aziraphale moved as quickly as he dared while still being thorough. He coated one foot, then the other, then wrapped them both in bandages. The entire time, Crowley didn't make a sound.

Aziraphale nudged the water basin to the side. He cleared his throat nervously. “The, ah—the burned layer should slough off, as the new skin grows underneath. Best to keep them covered while…while they heal.”

Crowley stayed silent. 

The silence gave Aziraphale’s thoughts space to wander. A dangerous prospect in their current state. Especially while he still held onto one of Crowley’s feet.

Before he knew it, his hand started wandering, too. Up Crowley’s ankle, into his trouser leg, right where his calf muscle began. He felt it flex—involuntarily, perhaps—under his palm. 

Crowley was so _warm._

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He sank closer to the warmth, against his caution and fear. He rested his cheek against Crowley’s knee, closing his eyes as the sharp jut of bone pressed against his face. Crowley’s scent was here, all smoke and spice and loamy earth. So many little things about him that Aziraphale had missed in the last eighty years.

And then… _oh._

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Crowley’s hand came to rest on the back of his neck, tenderly drawing him close. 

Aziraphale was sure he would float away on the current of his emotions, were it not for that touch grounding him here. He quietly spoke before he could think better of it: “Do we still have this?”

The answering silence buzzed like radio static in his ears. 

He was about to pull away, when Crowley answered. “I want us to.” A pause. Then, in hardly a whisper, “Do you?”

Aziraphale didn’t trust his voice. So he nodded instead, and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s knee. The hand on the back of his neck squeezed in response.

“Good,” said Crowley, “because for a while there, I thought you might’ve divorced me.”

Aziraphale breathed a laugh, despite himself. “I thought that’s what _you_ might’ve done.”

He heard a clatter of plastic and metal against the sofa cushions. Crowley’s hand left Aziraphale’s neck, reaching to tilt up his chin instead. He followed, to be met with Crowley’s sunglasses-free, _unbearably soft_ expression above him. 

“C’mere,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice. He rose up to sit in Crowley’s lap without another word. Crowley’s arms wrapped around his back.

Their first kiss in nearly a century was tentative, like they were afraid the other would shatter like glass against their lips. But it lasted. It lasted for ages, and yet Aziraphale wished it could’ve gone on for another thousand years. 

“We’re idiots,” Crowley murmured between their lips.

Aziraphale grinned. “Indeed, we are.”

They kissed again. And again. And again. Less hesitant now, but still just as true. It still sent Aziraphale’s pulse racing, even after all these years.

When they broke apart again, Crowley wore the beginnings of a smile. Hardly any white remained in his eyes. In the low light of the single lamp Aziraphale had flicked on when they'd arrived, the demon's irises shone like molten gold.

It might be blasphemous to think, but _good God,_ he was as beautiful as the day Aziraphale had met him.

But as much as Aziraphale’s blood was rushing in far more pleasant directions than his head, he knew this moment was still so fragile. To distract his hands, he started fidgeting with Crowley’s tie. “So,” he said, trying to cast about for another topic, something, _anything,_ “you have a car now.”

Crowley’s smile fell into place. _Lord._ “You like it?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale was starting to relax more, if only just. “It’s very you.”

“Had her since ‘33,” said Crowley. 

“So you weren’t asleep the _whole_ time.”

“No, I—” Crowley cut himself off. He cautiously glanced up at Aziraphale. “…How'd you know I was asleep?”

Aziraphale froze. Ah, yes. He hadn’t shared that little tidbit. 

He wondered if he should talk his way out of this, give some excuse. It would likely create more problems than it would solve, though. He might be good at lying by omission to Heaven, but never to Crowley. 

So, still fiddling with Crowley’s tie, he settled on the truth. “I, ah…I checked in on you once. A few days after…”

Crowley stilled under him. “Oh.”

Back to the awkwardness again.

Aziraphale refocused on Crowley’s tie. It was such a lovely shade of red, just like Crowley had always preferred. It fit so nicely with the black of his suit, and the silver of—

Oh.

_The silver._

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Crowley’s fingers met his as they tangled in the bit of silver chain visible at his collar. Aziraphale eased off, only for Crowley to fish the rest of the chain out from under his shirt.

There it was. That small silver ring hanging on the end. The same one Aziraphale had given him _three thousand years ago._

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The one he must have put back on after waking up from his decades-long nap.

Crowley seemed to have caught onto Aziraphale’s train of thought: his eyes squeezed shut as he winced, his face starting to flush. “I shouldn’t’ve…shouldn’t have taken it off. I was…being stupid.”

And just like that, a weight Aziraphale hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying lifted from his shoulders. 

Still, a sting of sorrow remained, as he realized the real reason Crowley might’ve taken it off. This had been their first proper fight in fifty-eight centuries, after all. Crowley had been dealt annoyance from Aziraphale through their rings, but never true anger.

No. Wait. Crowley _had_ sensed anger from the ring before. He’d sensed _fury._

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But that fury hadn’t been from Aziraphale.

That hardly mattered though, did it? If feeling Gabriel and Sandalphon’s anger had wounded Crowley so deeply that day, how would it have affected him to feel anything comparable from his husband? The idea of it might’ve been enough to scare Crowley away. It certainly would have scared Aziraphale, were their places reversed.

But he kept his revelation to himself. Crowley didn’t need to be reminded of that day any more than he did. So, Aziraphale moved onto the more practical reason to assuage Crowley’s fear. “You needn’t have worried about sensing me,” he said. He wiggled his right hand’s fingers at him—his ringless pinky among them.

Crowley stared at the digits for a second, before his face jolted like he’d just remembered something. “Oh, right.” He started patting at his pockets. “Shit, hope it’s not in my jacket.”

Aziraphale glanced to the coat rack. “Your jacket’s just over there.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to get up. A- _ha!”_ With a flourish, he withdrew a small, gold ring. 

Aziraphale gasped. It was _gorgeous._ Gold, like his last ring had been. It shone so brightly in the light, especially where the decorative angel wings molded into the band. (A bit on-the-nose, perhaps, but given the one time they’d nearly been discovered at the bookshop, Aziraphale was all in favor of anything that might throw Heaven off the trail of his husband.) 

“Here,” said Crowley. He took Aziraphale’s hand (which had Aziraphale’s heart racing) and slid the ring onto his pinky. Aziraphale held it up to the light, admiring how it gleamed on his finger. He was ready to _melt._

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“Was gonna give it to you that day,” said Crowley. “Before…”

Aziraphale knew he wasn’t going to finish that sentence. “I hoped you might,” he said. “I’d planned an entire day, you know, for us to—”

“Fraternize?”

Though Crowley said it in jest, Aziraphale still heard the hurt underneath the sarcasm. One of the demon’s many talents: he had a trick for every wound. 

But it was still a wound. For both of them.

Aziraphale winced, and lowered his gaze. “I should never have called it that,” he said softly. “That’s not what I—what I _wanted_ to call it.”

It took a beat, but just as softly, Crowley asked, “What did you want to call it?”

Aziraphale met his eyes again. He could see the hope in Crowley’s face, could practically _taste_ it.

But tasting could wait. First, he needed to soothe this dull ache between them, once and for all. He leaned in close to Crowley, looked him straight in the eyes. His right hand—newly-adorned with the gold ring—clutched onto the silver around Crowley’s neck. “What this has always been,” he murmured. “A marriage. _Our_ marriage. Because you, Mr. _Anthony J._ Crowley, are my husband, and no matter what name you choose, or what form you take, or however many arguments we will have between now and eternity, that is the one thing you will _always_ be.”

Crowley’s mouth had twitched up at the mention of his new first name and middle initial. But by the time Aziraphale finished speaking, the yearning and adoration on that handsome face had taken over. Aziraphale hardly had a chance to breathe before Crowley was kissing him again. It was a searing kiss, a brand upon his lips, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to _burn_ this feeling into his memories like hellfire.

But the thought of hellfire brought to mind what had started their whole disagreement in the first place: hellfire's equivalent substance, the dreaded liquid that could destroy a demon. Even the demon in his arms.

So, loath as he was to let the kiss go, Aziraphale withdrew. “And I know our marriage is what you were trying to protect,” he said. “But I _can’t_ give you what you asked for. Anything else, Crowley, I would, but _holy water—”_

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He cut himself off, as he saw some of the light in Crowley’s golden eyes grow dull at the reminder of their fight. Oh, how Aziraphale _hated_ to see it. 

Crowley turned away, looking to the nearest window. Aziraphale looked, too. Distant flashes of light shot through the darkened London sky. Earth-rattling booms rumbled over the constant drone of the air raid sirens. 

“Let’s not fight about it now,” Crowley murmured. “The world’s done plenty of that for one night.”

Aziraphale couldn’t argue with that. They settled into silence again. But instead of the awkwardness of earlier, this silence was the bone-deep comfort of two beings who had known each other, and loved each other, since the world was new. 

After a time, Aziraphale found himself leaning forward again. Crowley encouraged it, gathering him close. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, letting his head settle in the junction of Crowley’s neck. Crowley leaned his cheek against his head. 

There was a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple. An answering kiss to Crowley’s neck.

Then, for the first time in over a century, came the emotions. Focused through their rings, overwhelmed by their full-body contact, shouted through the silence via their close proximity. There was white-hot need, a soothing balm of forgiveness, and the tender cradling of _I missed you so much,_ and _I love you, of course I love you,_ and _my dearest_ and _my angel_ and _I’m still yours, I never stopped being yours, always, always, always…_

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In the rest of London, the city huddled underground as the bombs fell from the sky. But in a bookshop in Soho, an angel and a demon held each other close, and silently renewed their vows.


End file.
